


Blueberries and Blankets

by iam93percentstardust



Series: A Legend Anew [3]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fluff, For all of you who wanted a fluffy fic, Gen, Kid Fic, Sick Character, here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-09 09:58:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17999663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iam93percentstardust/pseuds/iam93percentstardust
Summary: Gandalf doesn't like to announce his visits but he finds when he comes by Bag End this time, Bilbo is feeling under the weather and Frodo is lonely. What to do, what to do...This story takes place between Gandalf first meeting Frodo at the beginning of Chapter 10 of Such Hope as This and when Balin arrives at Bag End at the end of Chapter 10.





	Blueberries and Blankets

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RLMZ](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=RLMZ).



> I should warn you all now that there's a little more angst in store for Such Hope as This so here's some fluff to make up for it :D  
> Additionally, yes too much sugar does mean that the yeast in baked goods can't do its job.

Gandalf didn’t like to announce his visits. He didn’t like to send letters asking if he could stop by for a few weeks. Wizards, he thought, should cultivate an air of mystery and importance and that was somewhat ruined if he asked permission to visit his friends. In particular, he liked to visit Bilbo without informing him he was coming if only because it was such a welcome change from the first time he’d visited Bilbo and been turned away to being greeted with a warm smile and a hug.

Today, though, he wondered if he should have perhaps sent notice because today, he felt a vague sense of disquiet as he made his way up the path to Bag End. He didn’t like these disquieting feelings. They were rarely signs of anything good. The last time he’d had a similar feeling had been moments before he’d faced the Necromancer.

Bag End was quiet. Bag End was almost never quiet, not since Frodo had come to live there. The windows were dark, the curtains drawn tight against the afternoon sun. Gandalf supposed Bilbo and Frodo could have been off on one of their walking adventures but the smial didn’t feel empty. It felt- sick, almost.

He frowned and swung the gate open. It squeaked. His frown deepened. Bilbo would never let his hinges get rusty like that.

Frodo was playing quietly in the garden though his eyes kept flicking towards the green door. He turned toward Gandalf when the gate squealed. Something was definitely wrong. Frodo had always looked excited to see him but now he barely reacted when he saw Gandalf. More concerning, Bilbo was nowhere to be seen and Gandalf knew that he would never have let Frodo run freely in his garden, not in his prize-winning gardens.

“Where’s your uncle?” Gandalf murmured.

Frodo’s mouth twisted. “Sleeping,” he said dully. “He’s been sleeping for days and days. Miss Gamgee says he’s really sick.” His lower lip trembled.

Gandalf wondered how long Bilbo had been sick for Frodo to be this worried. Absently, he patted Frodo’s head as he made his way past the boy. Frodo’s hand shot out to clutch at his robe.

“You can’t go in there,” Frodo said solemnly. “Miss Gamgee said we could get sick too.”

Gandalf smiled kindly. “Wizards don’t get sick like you do.” That wasn’t wholly true but it was true enough. Besides, Bilbo was his friend and needed his help and there was little that could stop him when he was determined like this.

He entered the hobbit hole, closing the door behind him with a soft snick. There was a loud coughing fit from the sitting room and then Bilbo called weakly, “Bell?”

“Gandalf,” he replied.

There was another cough, long and wet. Gandalf frowned again and walked into the sitting room, making sure to duck under the chandelier. Bilbo was buried in a mound of blankets in his chair in front of the fireplace. Bilbo’s eyes were fever bright, cheeks a flushed red. There was a shattered mug on the floor, a puddle of what smelled like chamomile tea spreading from the shattered ceramics. Bilbo’s hands were grasping weakly at thin air and Gandalf suspected that he must have lost his grip on the mug. He’d lost weight, too much for a hobbit who’d never quite regained the former softness of his belly after the quest.

“My dear Bilbo,” he said softly. “What’s happened?”

Bilbo raised a handkerchief to his mouth and coughed into it. “Thought it was just a cold,” he said into the cloth. When he pulled it away, it was dotted with red flecks. “Clearly not.”

Despite himself, Gandalf smiled at Bilbo’s attempt at humor. He knelt beside him. “May I?” he asked, gesturing with his staff.

Bilbo attempted a shrug but was only able to manage a feeble sort of jerk. As Gandalf pulled the crystal from his robes and settled it into the top of the staff, Bilbo said, “Didn’t know you could do that. Thought it was just for emergencies like-” He broke off, out of breath.

“Like on the Carrock?” Gandalf finished for him. Bilbo nodded. “Radagast is better at this sort of healing but I can do a little. Enough to get you on your feet at least.” He began to chant under his breath, so softly that Bilbo, only a few inches away, couldn’t even hear him. Slowly, Bilbo’s color evened out and his breath came easier.

“Thank you,” Bilbo breathed.

“You’ll be on the mend now,” Gandalf assured him. Bilbo smiled, a pale imitation of his usual grin but at least he _was_ smiling.

“Where’s Frodo?”

“Outside. He’s been worried about you.”

Bilbo’s smile disappeared. He nodded shortly before pushing the blankets aside and standing. He wobbled and nearly toppled over before Gandalf managed to reach out to steady him.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Gandalf asked.

“To see Frodo.” Bilbo sounded confused.

Gandalf said firmly, “Absolutely not. You’re going to bed.”

“But-”

“You’ve been sick for a long time. You need to rest, not to chase after a small child. I can chase after him for you.”

“And what are you going to do with him?”

“Run around the garden. Play with his toys. Bake muffins. Anything that doesn’t disturb you!”

Bilbo frowned doubtfully. “Do you even know how to bake muffins?”

Gandalf’s eyes narrowed. “Of all the things to- I have been alive for many lifetimes of men, Bilbo Baggins! Of course I know how to bake muffins!”

 

* * *

 

He did not know how to bake muffins.

Apparently, he didn’t have the slightest clue about how to bake muffins, which he learned when Frodo insisted that they needed another cup of sugar. “Are you sure about we need four cups of sugar?” he asked.

Frodo nodded seriously. “We want them to taste extra good for Uncle Bilbo.”

“And we do that with sugar?”

“Yes!”

Dutifully, Gandalf measured out another cup of sugar and dumped it into the mixing bowl. He peered at the mix dubiously. The dough looked awfully pale and frankly rather gritty. He supposed that the dough would darken as it baked but the grittiness- well, he wasn’t sure what would happen about that.

“What sort of muffins are we making?” he asked.

“Blueberry!”

Gandalf spied a bowl of fresh blueberries sitting on the dining table. He brought it back over the counter, noting as he did that, somehow, an absurd amount of flour had ended up spilled all over the counter, the floor, and Frodo. He wasn’t sure how that had happened in the few seconds he’d been turned away but it was certainly one of the biggest messes he’d seen in all his long years.

“Ah,” he muttered and decided to deal with the mess later. “How many blueberries do we need?”

“Lots!” Frodo said cheerfully. He hopped up to sit on the counter and spread his hands apart. “This many.”

It seemed like too many blueberries but Frodo probably knew best. He was sure that Frodo had probably made muffins before with either Bilbo or his parents. Surely, he knew what he was doing.

He poured about half of the bowl of blueberries into the dough and then, when Frodo said they needed more, he poured the rest. The dough was lumpier than ever but Frodo swiped a finger through it and pronounced it perfect. Gandalf eyed it carefully as he poured it into the muffin tin, more than a little worried at how powdery it seemed. He was sure that dough was supposed to pour easily, if a little viscous, not in clumps and somewhat crumbly.

Frodo, however, seemed pleased so Gandalf went ahead and stuck the tin in the oven. The faunt started to sit down on the table, content to wait until the muffins were done, but Gandalf scooped him back up.

“You’re going to take a bath,” he said.

Frodo tossed his head. “Nuh-uh. Don’t need a bath.”

Gandalf ran his hand through Frodo’s flour-whitened hair. “Don’t need a bath?” he repeated. “And how are you going to feel when your sick uncle has to clean up after you?”

The boy hung his head and sulked off in the direction of the bathrooms. Gandalf turned his attention back to the kitchen, surveying the extensive mess. He sighed deeply. How did making one batch of muffins produce so many dishes?

By the time the muffins were done fifteen minutes later, he’d only gotten half the mess cleaned. There was still a large stack of dishes to be done but at least the counters were gleaming.

“Blunt the knives, bend the forks,” he muttered, wishing briefly that the dwarves were there to clean up the mess in mere minutes. If they could clean the remnants of their feast in a two-minute song he could only imagine how quickly they’d be able to handle this much smaller meal.

He went to take the muffins out and frowned. Admittedly, Gandalf didn’t know much about baking but he was fairly certain they were supposed to rise in the oven. These still looked exceedingly flat. Dubiously, he poked at one of them and watched in consternation as it slowly deflated on itself.

“You did something wrong,” Frodo said from behind him.

Gandalf would deny to his dying day that he jumped in surprise. Wizards were never surprised. Therefore, it was impossible that Frodo had startled him.

“What precisely do you think I did wrong?” he asked.

Frodo eyed him like he wasn’t sure what all of those words meant but then he shrugged. “Dunno. But they’re not supposed to look like that so you must have done something wrong.”

Ah, the logic of a child.

Gandalf was certain that it hadn’t been he who was wrong, that it had been Frodo’s instructions but he wasn’t going to tell that to a child. Instead, he tossed the entire tin into the garbage.

“Why don’t we walk down to the Green Dragon and we’ll see if Miss Lily has muffins for sale instead?” he offered.

“Can we get cookies instead?” Frodo asked.

“Only if you behave.”

“What if I only sort of behave?”

Gandalf was certain that Bilbo would never forgive him for his next words but he was tired and he had a new appreciation for bakers. “Then you’ll only get one cookie instead of two,” he said firmly.

Frodo gasped. “ _Two_ _cookies_? Uncle Bilbo only lets me have one.”

“Two cookies,” Gandalf repeated. “But only if you behave.”

Frodo nodded seriously and stuck out his hand for Gandalf to shake. “I promise.”

 

* * *

 

Perhaps asking a small child to behave had been too much but Gandalf let him have two cookies anyway.


End file.
